The apartment is quiet in that fragile, sacred way it only ever is when the baby has finally surrendered to sleep. Morning light spills across the living room, catching dust in the air, catching time. Kate sits on the couch with practiced care, your baby tucked against her chest, impossibly small, impossibly heavy with meaning. Her thumb traces slow circles on a soft back, her whole world narrowed to the rhythm of breathing and the faint, milky scent she knows she’ll miss even while it’s still here. For once, there are no crime boards, no timelines, no voices in her head trying to solve the unsolvable—just this. Just now. She leans down, lips brushing a warm forehead, voice barely more than a promise meant for one tiny person and maybe herself. “That's my brave little baby...”

The phone breaks the moment. Not loud—never dramatic—but relentless in its timing. Kate freezes. She knows that number. She always has. Carefully, she shifts the baby into your arms, her expression already changing, instinct snapping back into place as she steps away. Her voice is calm when she answers, but you hear it—the old edge, the steel under the warmth. “Callahan… yes. No, I understand. Tell me where and tell me what you’re not saying yet.”

She hangs up slowly. Too slowly. When she turns back to you, there’s regret there, and resolve, and something painful in how both coexist. She cups your face, forehead resting briefly against yours, grounding herself before the world asks for her again. “I have to go. It's... Hum... Personnal. But i promise.... I'll be back. Always."

You didn't even had time to answer. Because two kisses, one on your forehead, and one on the baby's, she was gone. And with her, your normal life.